Page 1 of How to Win a Duke’s Heart

Ayr, Scotland

Belleisle Racecourse

7 August 1810—half past ten in the morning

Eager for any sight of the sleek racehorses, Sophronie Slater leaned forward on the luxurious gold velvet seat until her nose practically touched the glass. As she peered out the coach’s dusty windows, butterflies giddily flitted around her tummy.

How she loved the races. Ever so much more than stuffy, pompous balls, routs, and soirees.

Only Scottish-bred horses were permitted to run the Belleisle track, and she was curious to learn how the horseflesh would measure up against the thoroughbreds she and her father raised in America. Or against the impressive high steppers Papa had purchased while they’d been in England these past months.

Remorse prodded her conscience when she considered the ocean voyage the poor beasts would have to endure, secured in the ship’s bowels for weeks on the return journey to Virginia. Papa had cautioned her against purchasing too many horses for that very reason.

So far, Sophronie had only bought a lovely broodmare at Tattersall’s a few weeks ago. On the other hand, Father had made several purchases, including a trio of sinewy racehorses: two colts and a filly.

However, she was too excited about today’s race to remain downcast for more than a passing moment. Unlike some breeders or racehorse owners, the Slaters prided themselves on taking the very best care of their animals.

Sophronie scrutinized the scenery as the coach slowly trundled along. The coachmen called out harsh warnings to anyone or anything in the path of the brilliant matched black team. Other drivers cursed and shouted as they too maneuvered wagons, carriages, dog carts, and all manner of other conveyances through the growing throng.

A man hurried past with a boy on his shoulders of perhaps five or six years and clutching a bright red and blue top. Two grinning older lads trotted behind them, each waving a cup and ball toy. A woman who might’ve been their mother, carrying a toddler with glossy raven curls and her thumb stuck in her mouth, followed at a more sedate pace. From their tidy but plain attire, Sophronie guessed them to be local villagers on an outing.

Farther along, two couples dressed in the first stare of fashion strolled along, preening in the attention they received. The ladies twirled their lacy parasols as their menfolk strutted behind them like proud peacocks.

Racecourses brought all manner of people together. For a few hours, social class and position were forgotten and spectators, rich and poor alike, cheered for their favorite horse.

Would the surly Duke of Waycross be there today?

Did hungry piglets squeal?

Sophronie released a forceful, indelicate snort, and Papa issued a warning. “Ahem.”

“Pardon me, Papa.”

Sending him a contrite smile, she adjusted her position on the seat to better see out the small window. A fly landed on the glass, crawling a convoluted path until a wheel sank into a rut, jarred the conveyance, and sent the insect on its way. Fine dust particles crept into the well-made coach, and the promise of a warm day and the large crowd might’ve put a less robust woman off.

Sophronie searched the cottony cloud-ridden azure sky.

It was a perfect day for a horse race.

She lived for events like these. No, she thrived on activities of this nature; outdoors, away from the rigid strictures of Society, and in the proximity of horses.

What could be better?

What more could she desire?

Only one thing.

The day would be far more enjoyable if she didn’t have to worry about encountering the disagreeable Duke of Waycross.

Of course the craggy-faced, imposing Scot would be here, stomping around and scowling at everyone and everything. Waycross also raised and raced horses, and usually that would’ve exalted him to a lofty status in her estimation. Nevertheless, a more unpleasant man Sophronie had never met. His love of horseflesh couldn’t compensate for his gruff temperament and severe presence.

In truth, she’d never seen the duke smile.

Scowl, frown, smirk, sneer, deride, mock, curse, and grimace?

Oh, aye. Many, many times. But a genuine smile of warmth or humor? Not once. Not even a nascent upward tip of his firm lips.

What caused a man to be that grim and humorless?